To John Tyndall, Snr   Thursday night, (July 22nd 1841)

Kinsale, Thursday¹ night

My dear Father

I now sit down to congratulate you on your recent victory² – well and bravely has Carlow done her duty – The news of this triumph sped like a meteor until it reached this. I had it on Sunday last. You may rest assured that I was no unmoved listener to the intelligence. An echo from the World’s End³ answered the loud hurrah! contained in Phil’s letter⁴ – the rocks of Scilly rung and the banks of the Bandon⁵ responded to the Carlow cheer – hurrah!

Words could not convey an idea of the transport with which I received it. Three leaps off the ground was the immediate consequence – ’twas great – ’twas glorious. Dan kicked out from Dublin⁶ and his namesake Whelp⁷ rejected from Carlow.

Mail! ye venerable cloisters of Derrynane⁸ again he seeks your protection, let nature sympathise with him and upland herds shew him a dumb compassion – mourn with him ye streams and Oh! ye turrets of his fathers’ domicile reecho⁹ his piteous wail.

What has that demon traitor Maher¹⁰ to say now! the strongest conjuration of my fancy I fear would fail to depict him in his true colours. Me thinks I see him – his ghastly countenance displaying the fiercest passions that ever agitated the bosom of an arch devil – With what contortions he writhes! – he foams – he swells – he groans – curses froth upon his lips – the fellest anathema of his mother dwells upon his tongue – oh! for the stake of former times oh! for the power of a Bonner¹¹ – a Bonner’s spirit is here but fancy has attained her limit and Maher recedes before my mind’s eye a distracted phantom.

Sound the loud timbrel o’er Barrow’s blue wave¹²

The Hydra is crushed that would Carlow enslave.¹³

Language could not do justice to the boys of St. Mullins;¹⁴ they have erected for themselves a monument in the hearts of all honest men that shall long outlive the ephemeral popularity of those fiendish agitators that would coerce them to their ruin. The noblest privilege of man is liberty to assert his right of thought; the Barony boys¹⁵ have not resigned it.

But what shall we say of Col Bruen – of him who has borne the brunt of the battle in so many hard-fought days – like the oak of the forest he has braved the fury of agitation’s tempest – Victory’s brightest banner now waves above him – may propitious breezes long continue to fan his ample volume

Let fame her golden trumpet sound

Let Erin¹⁶ join the theme

And Barrow’s beauteous banks resound

In praise of Bruen’s name.

You deem me an enthusiast, but

‘Breathes there a man with a soul so dead

That never to himself hath said

This is my own my native land.’¹⁷

Carlow is mine – the wildest furzebush that blossoms on her braes is dear to me – blame me not then for being warm in her cause. May heaven strew its choicest blessings on her.

Good bye | Your affectionate son | John Tyndall

RI MS JT/1/10/3233

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